Michael skidded the bike to a halt, leant forward over the handlebars and hung his head between his shoulders, breathing long and deep: This courtin’ business is bloody ’ard work! A smile crept slowly across his face, the twinkle returning to his soft green eyes: Boot it’s well worth it!
Since Christmas, he’d managed to see quite a bit of Harriet Caplin, even if it was usually at the cost of some miles spent on the rickety old bike which was intended for lock-wheeling. He glanced around, watching the scattered clouds roll slowly across the sky as the sun sank towards the horizon beyond the turnpike – it was a beautiful late spring evening, and the prospect of seeing Harriet made it unsurpassable, in Michael’s eyes. He sat upright, stretching his aching back – he’d already covered nearly six miles, from Cosgrove, along the level pound; just up past the locks, about another mile, and he’d be there… He’d stopped just below Stoke Bruerne bottom lock, to have a breather before tackling the uphill part of his journey, on the old transhipment wharf which dated back to the days before Blisworth Tunnel had been finished; now, he bent to his pedals again, leaving its dilapidated, long-abandoned isolation for the hub of activity which was the village.
Oi woonder ’ow Gracie’s doin’? His thoughts took a new turn as he rose from the saddle to breast the rise up to the lockside, the bike swaying from side to side beneath him. She was about due to have her baby – last time he’d seen her, just a few weeks before, she’d been even more robustly joyful than normal. She’d grabbed him, given him a huge hug and a hearty kiss on his cheek; he’d kissed her back, despite feeling rather embarrassed at being held tightly against her bulging tummy, as she’d told him that she was hoping to be at Stoke when the baby came, so that she could have Sister Mary on hand to help: Oi woonder if they’re ther’? His smile grew even wider at the thought.
It had been a good trip – they’d loaded with tinned goods at City Road, destined for Crescent Wharf, leaving about half a day ahead of Bill and Vi Hanney, who’d got similar orders. Albert, a knowing twinkle in his eyes, had suggested waiting, running the two pairs butty all the way, but had allowed Michael to persuade him to go on ahead, knowing that Towcester and Bodmin were also travelling North, a bare few hours in front of them – the bike had seen a lot of use, the boy setting off as soon as the boats were tied to cycle ahead as far as it took to see his girl, leaving his captain’s knowing grin and his sister’s despairing look behind him.
The shirt was sticking to his back as he slogged his way past Major Gardner’s farmhouse, under the double-arched bridge, and up the last slope at the tail of the top lock. Just along, to the right, a crowd was gathered outside Sister Mary’s surgery; several faces turned to him as he hove into view, and then one detached itself and ran towards him, waving frantically: Soomethin’s wrong! But the face in question was grinning fit to split itself in half:
‘Moikey! It’s a boy – Oi’m an Ooncle!’ Ernie Caplin rushed up to him, threw his arms around a startled Michael’s neck, held on to him whilst jigging up and down on the spot.
‘Yeah? That’s brilliant, Ernie!’ The teenager released him and stepped back, suddenly embarrassed at his own excess of emotion:
‘Er – yeah – well, so’re yew, Moikey!’ Michael felt himself echoing the other’s silly grin:
‘Oi s’pose Oi am, too!’
‘’Course y’are! Gracie alwes calls yew ’er little brother, even if y’ent, not really… Oi mean – oh, yeh know!’
‘Oi know!’ Michael laughed at his companion’s discomfiture – Ernie had always had a knack of putting his foot in his mouth. ‘Coom on, Oi want ter see!’
He dropped the bike on the lockside, took Ernie by the elbow and hurried him back to the crowded doorway of the little red-brick house. People saw them approach, made way for them to get to the door and look inside; Joey Caplin, a look of stunned pride on his face, saw Michael standing there, and beckoned him in. Joey was stood behind the chair where his wife sat, gazing raptly down at the tiny bundle she held in her arms, his hands protectively on her shoulders; at his side stood his parents, joy and pride just as evident in their expressions. Gracie looked up, gave Michael a radiant smile:
‘Look, Moikey! Coom ’n see yer nephew!’ He stepped forward, into the room, and knelt on the floor beside her; she eased the lacy white cloth from the baby’s face to allow him a better look. He gazed down at the tiny, wizened face, brightly pink, the eyes firmly shut – and sudden memory assailed him. He’d looked down at a new-born baby once before, in a hospital ward, so many years, a lifetime, ago… His head came up, his eyes frantically searching, until they lit on Sister Mary, quietly bustling in a corner:
‘Sister Mary! He’s – all right, isn’t he?’ She looked up, a kindly if puzzled smile on her face:
‘All right, Mikey? He’s a lovely bonnie boy, as strong and healthy as you’ll see!’
He turned back to Gracie, feeling tears gathering behind his eyes; she eased one hand from the bundle in her lap, and reached out, stroked his cheek:
‘He’s foine, Moikey. Ther’s nothin’ wrong wi’ ’im, nothin’ at all!’ He nodded, feeling his throat tighten until he couldn’t speak; he looked down again at the baby so that she wouldn’t see his tears, and saw the little eyes flutter open, to look straight into his own. Gracie’s voice was soft, loving:
‘Jack – this’s yer Ooncle Moikey.’ Her hand caressed the back of his neck as he struggled to take charge of his feelings. Another voice spoke from the doorway:
‘What d’yer reckon, Moichael – ent ’e wonderful?’ He looked around, his heart lifting at the sound although he was still blinking back the tears:
‘’Arriet! ’E’s marvellous!’ Staggering to his feet, he bent to kiss Gracie on the cheek, then reached out and shook Joey’s hand:
‘’E’s brilliant, Joe – yeh moost be so proud!’
‘Thank yeh, Moikey – Oi am, that!’
‘’E’s lovely, ent ’e, Moikey?’
‘’E is, Gracie – well doon, big sister!’
‘Thank yeh, little brother!’
With a last grin at the new parents, he made his way to the door where Harriet was waiting, her usual shy smile on her face. Impulsively, he took her by the shoulders, drew her to him and kissed her soundly on the cheek, to an accompaniment of quiet, encouraging laughter and jeers from those around them.
‘Moichael!’ Harriet’s whisper sounded flustered; he just grinned down at her. She shook her head at him, well aware that her parents were in the room; he glanced over his shoulder, to see both senior Caplins watching him – the expression on Henry’s face was not discouraging, and a smile was playing around Suey’s lips as she exchanged looks with her daughter.
‘Kettle’s on, Moichael – would yeh loike a coopa?’ He turned back to his girl at her question, the grin still on his face:
‘Oi’m doyin’ fer oone, ’Arriet – Oi’ve joost boiked all the way from Cosgrove!’
‘Well, coom on back ter the boats, then! Yew coomin, Ma?’ Her father answered for them:
‘Yew two go on, we’ll be ’long in a minute!’
Ernie Caplin watched as his sister led her beau outside, smiling up at him all the time, shaking his head with all the worldly-wise experience of any fourteen-year-old: Them two’ll be getting’ in tow ’fore long! His eyes stayed on them, half proud, half amused, as they strolled along the towpath towards the waiting Grand Union pair, hand in hand.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Unfamiliar territory, unfamiliar water. The beat of a Bolinder echoed from the blackness of the tunnel-mouth into the Summer sunshine, then fell in tone and volume as the motor-boat nosed out again into daylight, its fore-end riding high out of the water. The butty followed, tight to its stern on its cross-straps; but the sound of a second engine resonated from deeper within the darkness, echoed by yet a third.
Thursday morning, and Ben Vickers had called both Albert and Bill Hanney, by chance tied up together in Braunston, to his office:
�
��I need three pairs, for a special job – how do you fancy a trip down the Worcester Cut?’ The two boatmen had exchanged looks, raised eyebrows; Albert spoke for them both:
‘Oi thought the Severn coomp’ny ran that cut?’
‘They do, usually. But they’ve no boats to spare, and they’ve got a special cargo, to come to Birmingham from Diglis basin – are you up for it? I’ll find a third pair to go with you.’ Bill nodded to Albert as he looked around again:
‘H’okay, Mr Vickers, we’ll give it a go fer yeh. We’re to go empty, are we?’
‘Yes – can you set off today?’
‘Oi reckon so – moy injun seems ter be h’okay now. ’N yeh’ve got the stooff out o’ store yeh needed, Bill?’
‘Yeah – we can go soon as yeh loike, Mr Vickers.’
‘That’s great! You should make Diglis Sunday night, shouldn’t you?’
‘Aye, reckon so. We’ll load Moonday, shall we?’
‘Hopefully, yes. The company’ll pay you for running empty, as it’s a special job.’
‘That’s good, ent it, Bill?’
‘Tis that! Oi’ll get Vi ’n the boys tergether, we’ll be off in ’alf an hour, h’okay?’
‘We’ll be ready, Bill. Moikey’s joost oop the shop, gettin’ soome bits, ’e’ll not be long.’
Returned from the village shop, a bag of provisions in hand, Michael received the news with mixed feelings. He’d never seen the Worcester and Birmingham Canal, beyond its junction with the Stratford at King’s Norton, and the prospect of new places, a new road, with a surprise around every corner, excited him. But, the few days it would take them for the trip there and back meant being far away from Harriet, with no clear idea of when he might see her again – and he was surprised to realise just how much that bothered him. He would hardly have called their relationship a romance, feeling that they were both far too young for things like that, and they were only able to meet infrequently, as their respective orders permitted, anyhow – but he always knew, at least approximately, where she was. For these days, he would lose touch with her, not know, not be able to imagine, just where she was, what she was doing, at any given moment. And that idea left him feeling unsettled, distracted. But – orders were orders, and he was a company man now, so what Mr Vickers said was what they would do. And, once they were back to their regular haunts, he’d soon pick up knowledge of where she was, when they might meet…
They’d made the Cape that night; the Bluebell, on the Stratford-on-Avon Canal, for Friday night; now, Saturday afternoon, and, once out of the darkness of the tunnel, they were approaching the top of Tardebigge locks. As he slowed the boats past the old wharf, a strange sight caught Michael’s eye – a butty, to all appearances, but with the sound of a petrol engine coming from its stern, and the oddest of constructions built upon it. The hull, with the sleek lines of a Shropshire Union boat, looked to be unchanged – but a full-length cabin had been added, leaving a long open deck at the stern where the original butty cabin had been, with steel hand-rails around it: What on earth?
As he looked, a man emerged from the doors of the strange cabin – a tall, almost gangling fellow, casually but well dressed. He looked over at the working boats, and waved a greeting:
‘Hello!’ Michael raised a hand in reply:
‘’Ow d’yer do?’
‘Fine, thank you! Yourselves?’
‘Good, thank yeh. That’s a rare boat yeh got ther’, mister?’ The man laughed:
‘The Cressy? I suppose she is, a bit! I had her rebuilt, by Tooley’s at Banbury – we live on her, now, myself and my wife.’
‘Joost live? Yeh’ve no room fer carryin’, ’ave yeh?’ The man laughed again:
‘Just live! I’m a writer – Tom Rolt. Pleased to meet you!’ Michael nodded, echoing the man’s smile:
‘Moikey Baker! This moy Dad’s pair – we’re goin’ ter Diglis.’ They were drawing past; the man waved a farewell:
‘Good luck to you, Mr Baker! We’ll see you on your way back, perhaps.’
‘Oi’ll look out fer yeh!’
He carried on to the top lock, which stood open and ready for them, ran the motor in at the same time as he cast off the cross-straps; Ginny ran the butty to the side, stepped off and braked it to a halt on the strapping stump placed there for the purpose. Tardebigge top lock is abnormally deep – by the time they’d worked both boats through, and Michael had set off on foot to ready the next, Bill Hanney’s pair were at the top, and their third pair rapidly approaching; Jack Warden had caught them up the previous night, at the Bluebell.
They’d got the Acorn at the bottom of the lock, and Albert was running the Sycamore into the second, when the lock-keeper came running down from his cottage, waving at them:
‘’Old on, fellers! Noo orders fer yeh!’ They dropped whatever they were doing, and waited for him to catch up. He stopped beside the Acorn, as it emerged from the lock, bent to catch his breath:
‘Message for yeh from Braunston! The job’s off, yeh’re to turn roond ’n goo back.’
‘Off? What d’yer mean?’
‘All I knows is that’s the message I got fer yeh – to goo back ter Braunston.’
‘Bugger me! Oi ’ope they’re goin’ ter pay oos fer all this empty roonin’?’ The keeper shook his head:
‘I don’t know ’bout that, Captain. All I got is what I told yeh.’ Bill shrugged his shoulders:
‘We’ll stop ’ere, then, fer tonoight, ’n start back in the mornin’. Roon down ’n tell Alby, will yer, Billy?’
‘Roight, Dad!’ The teenager set off at a run; Bill turned back to the keeper:
‘Thanks, mate. We’ll tie all three pairs ’ere, if that’s h’okay?’
‘Sure thing! I’ll give you all a ’and to back up in the morning, ’n turn at the wharf.’ Bill nodded:
‘Thank yeh.’ The lock-keeper left to return to his cottage; they worked all six boats into the long pound between the first and second locks, tied them securely there for the night. Fed, watered and changed, they walked to a pub in the village for a few beers.
Sunday morning – no-one felt like an early start, after the anticlimax of their aborted trip. Everyone was up and about, breakfasts cooking, hands and faces being washed; Albert, still not entirely happy with the way the aging and tired Bolinder was running, was down in his engine-hole, once again resetting the injector pumps. He paused in his work, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of an oily hand, and leant out into the sunshine, to see a couple walking up from the second lock. The man was tall and well-built, dark-haired, with heavily-framed spectacles, smartly dressed in an expensive raincoat; the woman, equally well-dressed, had an air of class about her, in her appearance and the way she carried herself. They approached Albert’s pair, first of the three:
‘Good morning!’ The man greeted Albert, in the act of lighting up his pipe; he took it from his mouth:
‘Mornin’.’
‘Have you seen a boat called the Cressy, hereabouts?’ Albert scratched his head – he’d been in the cabin as they passed the wharf the previous day, but Michael, eating breakfast in the butty cabin, had overheard. Now, he poked his head out of the hatch:
‘Mornin’; she’s oop above the top lock, boy the old wharf.’
‘Good morning! Thank you – we’re here to meet the man who owns her.’
‘Mr Rolt, that’d be?’ The man smiled:
‘That’s right – Tom Rolt. He’s there, is he?’
‘Was last noight, fer sure.’
‘That’s good! Thank you.’
‘Yeh’re welcome, mister…?’
‘Aickman – Robert Aickman. This is my wife, Ray.’ The woman inclined her head in greeting.
‘Moikey Baker – ’n that’s moy Dad, Albert.’
‘Good to meet you, gentlemen!’ He gestured over his shoulder: ‘These locks are in a bit of a state, aren’t they?’ Michael grinned:
‘We ’aven’t seen ’em yet – we doon’ usually work down th
is way. Boot yeh doon’ surprise me – yeh should see the Stratford Cut; or the bottom road out o’ Birnigum!’ The look on Aickman’s face was sympathetic:
‘I know – I’ve been to look at some of them. That’s why I’m here, to meet Mr Rolt – We’re hoping we might be able to do something about it.’
‘Oh? D’yeh work fer the coomp’ny, then?’
‘No! But – I’m thinking we might be able to get other like-minded people together, form… oh, some kind of pressure group, maybe, do something to make the authorities see that the canals are worth saving, worth investing in for the future.’
‘Yeh’d ’ave all o’ the boaters be’ind yeh, fer sure, if yeh can do anythin’! Good loock to yeh.’
‘You too, gentlemen! Goodbye for now.’ They walked on, passing the other pairs, exchanging ‘good mornings’ with Bill and Vi, and Jack Warden.
‘Oi woonder if they’ll ever do any good, Dad?’
‘’Oo knows, Moikey!’
Epilogue
Now, at last, it really was all over. The Rising Sun had gone down into its self-inflicted night with the ultimate persuasion of two atomic bombs, and the world was once more at peace.
The succession of astonishing news stories had broken as they were making their way back to Braunston after the abortive trip to Worcester. The Sycamore’s aging Bolinder had begun to play up again; Albert had told Bill and Jack to go on, to get back for whatever orders were available, while he and Michael did their best to keep the tired engine going. They had lost more than a day, but made it back eventually; Ben Vickers had to send to Saltley Dock for a spare injector, and they remained tied on the towpath near the iron bridge to await its arrival.
The end of the fighting, after so many years, brought on a strange feeling of nostalgia in Albert, as it had in so many others. With little to do, they were sat in the cabin of the Antrim the next morning, breakfast finished, with a mug of tea apiece; he looked up at Michael:
A Boy Off the Bank Page 20